


Hamartánein

by ThePsuedonym



Series: Incipient [1]
Category: The Lion King (1994)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Background Character Death, Blood, Character Study, Drought, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Inheritance, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Scar (The Lion King) Backstory, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePsuedonym/pseuds/ThePsuedonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is the master of his own destiny.<br/><br/><br/>or: <em>pride cometh before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. Proverbs 16:18.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hamartánein

**Author's Note:**

> This only uses _The Lion King_ as reference material; it’s tagged as AU because I learned after I started writing that Mufasa is older than Scar. Oh well.

 

 

Hamartánein - [mar-tahn-neen] _verb_ ; Greek, "to err", "to miss the mark"; see _hamartia_

 

_He was the prodigal son._

Home was both the first and last things he could remember, always a deep, dark cave with rough stone walls and floors cool to the touch, a pleasurable contrast to the scathing summer heat he had been born in; a drought, they would later whisper, when he was out of sight but not of mind; born during a drought! Surely he was cursed! A bringer of misfortune and ill tidings!

But that was to be later, when he was older and matured.

At that time he had been young still, learning to open his eyes only yesterday and beginning to differentiate between the shades of light and dark and everything that fell in between. How one end of the tunnel cut off into a blinding curtain of white that was unsafe, for his mother always pulled him away by the scruff of his neck whenever he approached it. The other was dark and wet and occasionally spawned puddles that he also had to be dragged from, fur dripping and unpleasantly rancid.

Today, that day – whatever it had been, past or present or future – he had watched with wide and innocent eyes as the white gave birth to a creature. It ambled right through as though the wall didn’t exist, fully grown and colorfully furred and even handling a _thing_ for support, with another couple of bright _things_ attached to it.

The creature had only glanced at him at first, clearly intending to speak with his mother, but did a double-take and peered closely at the young cub, his long face filling every corner of the lion’s vision. He reached out a paw and pressed it to the creature’s red nose and, to his surprise, it laughed.

“I see that it’s true what they say,” the creature chuckled in an odd accent, poking back at him.

He heard his mother’s voice above him, wary and curious and most certainly humoring the curious stranger, “Oh? And what do they say?”

It leaned in close to them both, free hand cupped around his mouth and voice lowered to a stage whisper as though sharing a great secret. “They say he shall be the master of his own destiny.”

Another hearty laugh escaped as it rocked away from them both; its shoulders shook with the strength of its humor.

“Now come, come, today is an important day, child! Mother! Today will be the day you see your path!”

A dexterous appendage slipped underneath him and carried him towards the white. The _thing_ was set against the wall and once secure, they headed out of the cave and into the blinding, stinging light (everything the light touches is our kingdom). He felt more than saw the second paw join the first, and snugly wrapping itself around his midsection, situated in the space between the curves of his ribs and the bunch of his thigh.

Eventually the brightness settled into blinding colors and he looked around eagerly, drinking in his surroundings as the creature continued forward, his mother only a half-stride behind them.

His father was nowhere to be found and everywhere at once.

The grip on his stomach tightened slightly and he felt an emptiness yawn underneath him. Death was an instinctual concept, even if he had no name for it, so when it brushed against him he flinched away from it and tucked his hind legs as close as possible to his body. His senses, as dull as they were with inexperience, screamed that if he fell he would undoubtedly cease to be.

He didn’t like the creature anymore.

For five infinitely long minutes he didn’t so much as twitch a muscle for fear of dropping, his thoughts half-paralyzed by terror and stumbling over each other mindlessly. Then it was over and he was returned to his mother not a second too soon. He pressed himself into her side once more, trembling from terror and the self-control it took to keep himself so still. She groomed him fur clean of the creature’s influence and he minutely relaxed.

He was safe again and the creature was gone.

It was safe.

 

_He was the successor to their father._

Sitting together, as they were, one would be hard-pressed to believe them related and entirely unconvinced that they were father and son.

And yet.

They were as opposite as night and day: to one side was the father, whose bright golden fur and crimson mane gleamed in the sunlight and created an illusion of regal fire and energy; beside him was the son, his dusty coat even duller by mere proximity to his picturesque father, the natural scruffiness only enhanced by the sporadic growth of small black tufts of fur atop his head and along the neck.

On the right was a luminous sun; on the left the tenebrious moon.

Neither one was quite like the other and that separation chafed between them. Righteous and firm was the father, though terribly stubborn and certain of the correctness of his teachings and methods; passed down from his father before him, they bore the weight of their ancestry. Unlike his parentage, the son was calculative and shrewd and perceptive, taken to questioning anything and everything presented to him for their hidden meanings, naïveté and innocence shrouding the potential cynicism and acerbic edges he would carry in his prime.

Rather than serving to bring them closer, to seal the gaps between them, those differences pried them apart.

Swift, so swift the elder was, to realize that he lacked strength in the younger’s pursuits; intellectually, he was being outmaneuvered and was left grasping at the shadows of concepts that his son pondered in full. Epiphany brought realization; realization led to understanding. Understanding broke into resentment that simmered beneath the surface, ill-disguised and lashing out at inopportune moments. Friction built in between them with his shortening temper and ever-growing frustration with his inability to understand his son until, one day, it became directed at the boy himself – for the animosity that separated them in ways that fathers and sons should never be.

The younger did not, _could not_ understand the pressures placed upon his father, those terrible thoughts and tragedies that had changed him from a calm, distant but warm presence into something cold and hateful. He could not understand, too young, too naïve, so he lashed back and fought against the darkness the only way he knew how: by fighting with his father, love and hate twisting together in his heart. Unwilling to give up ground but desperate for his father’s acceptance, the son wanted to have what they had had before yet knew that he was undeserving of the treatment he had received; pride demanded that, as the aggressor, his father must initiate reparations.

And so the rift grew.

Like ancestor stars drawn together and tide locked in a strange and ancient celestial dance, both made every effort to keep the other in their line of sight, prowling and stalking the other in a kind of play-acting that had long since deteriorated into true animus. The closest they could come to what once was, was during rare moments of peace such as then. Sitting together, gazing out at the Pride Lands that was the duty of the father and the inheritance of the son, was a rare moment of peace and calm.

As with all things it had to pass; and the catalyst was the news of the second.

 

_He was the hope of the pride._

Most of his memories as a young cub were blurred, wisps and echoes of the past that returned on occasion to haunt his mind with a familiarity that leaves his head and eyes aching. Remaining in the cave as Rafiki took his younger brother away – _Mufasa_ , his mother had purred as she groomed his messy and damp fur – he watched the proceedings through a deep, lingering pain settled square between his eyes.

Beside him was his mother, silent as she had been when her first cub had been taken from her side. Standing beside the baboon was his father; though his face couldn’t be seen, it was undoubtedly dripping with more pride for the second-born than he ever felt for the first.

It made his head hurt and his chest burn.

The child, his sibling, resembled their father’s regal coloring more than their mother’s subdued brown and blacks; and, if he wasn’t mistaken, the younger lion had even inherited ruby-colored eyes rather than the gentle emerald currently fixated on the bloated, overzealous scene that was unfolding before them.

He thought about his father, his mother, his newly born brother and he wonders. He wondered, and the words spilled from his mouth without his consent: “Father would prefer a more amicable heir, wouldn’t he?”

His mother – the heiress of Pride Rock, whose ancestors were the first to lead the herbivores to the bountiful savannah and protect them from other predators, to whom the animals had first pledged their fealty to in grateful measure and loyalty – said nothing. The ceremony was winding down outside the cave and Rafiki returned the tiny cub, murmuring words to his mother that sounded to be both pride and regret in equal measures.

Without a word his father passed them both by, stalking off to the lower levels of Pride Rock to perform the duties he had inherited. The baboon also departed after exchanging some words with the lioness queen and an unreadable look towards her son. While his mother could offer no condolences, her silence had given him all the information he had needed.

In the coming months, when their father began grooming the younger son for the position he did not inherit – neither had inherited, for that matter – the eldest said nothing and allowed the slight to pass.

It would not matter, in the end. He would prove his worthiness, much as his ancestors had before him. There would be no question of his worth if he could provide evidence of his abilities.

 

_He was the catalyst of their fall._

Opportunity arose without his intention, brought about without a drop of malice or a smidgen of effort on his part. The chance to prove himself did not mean he didn’t suffer with the rest of the Pride Lands when it happened, either; and insufferable it was, a kind of hell on earth that had only previously existed in the pride’s collective memories and long past the gossipy word-of-mouth that propagated the other animals’ stories.

Perhaps the only event that could singularly threaten the entire savannah’s existence and guarantee the lands barren for generations to come – worse than the insect plagues his mother had driven off; worse than the rampant illness that had attacked the zebra and gazelle herds during his grandfather’s reign; and even more horrible than the mutiny his great-grandparents had had to put down – was a drought.

One strong enough to dry the numerous lakes’ hidden reservoirs and leave their banks dry as choking dust. One that yellowed the numerous grasses through unbearable waves of heat that refused to abate. One that drew the presence of carrion birds as, one by one, animals began to drop dead as their organs boiled and gave out, leaving carcasses so dry and odious that even the hyenas couldn’t help but turn their noses up at them.

Or, really, cover their noses as they made whined pitifully, strained voices dry and cracked with thirst as much as every other animal in the savannah.

His father had departed the Pride Lands days earlier after a terse discussion with his mother while under the illusion that their children were far out of hearing range; but they had eavesdropped upon what had sounded suspiciously similar to final goodbyes, mixed with nonsensical warnings about stories the baboon had told their father.

Mufasa was still young yet but he understood the concept of death. Applying it to their own father was another matter entirely.

He had no such compunctions: their father was leaving them with the intention to never return.

Whether his reasons were selfish or selfless he did not care. It was painful to think about; he had done nothing but argue with the older lion, yet the thought of him never returning left an ache in his chest that was unfamiliar and wholly unwanted.

It was true that he wanted to prove his abilities, but not at the cost of his family, no matter how unfairly distant they might have been.

Every day he travelled out into the savannah to find a new water source – even a tiny puddle would do, would be better than the dry heat that had settled over everything the light touched. And every day he returned to the iconic landmark and collapsed in the cavernous den, sides heaving with bone-weary exhaustion and failure.

His mother fared no better; her coat, once glossy and well-groomed, had become lank and unkempt. She had stopped eating since their father had left, her spirit drained alongside her home. Even his brother – whom he could not help but love and hate in equal measure; he was his brother and their (dead) father’s favorite – was looking scruffier and thinner by the day. In their father’s absence he was supposed to care for them and _that_ , their indiscriminate suffering, was the best he could do.

He was looking outwards when he should have been looking _in_.

Hidden beneath Pride Rock was an underground lake, forgotten by even the lions that guarded it. It was not him but his brother who had stumbled upon the water source, had led the other animals inside to slake their thirst and rejuvenate themselves until the drought broke and rain fell once more.

He had been shunted to the fringes as the younger brother was hailed, urged to take his brother’s place as king in the wake of their mother’s death – salvation found just too late to save her. It had been he arranged the necessary rites for their parents, despite the absence of the father, while Mufasa was bedecked with glory and deified for saving the animals.

Nor could it be argued that he hadn’t. Without the hidden lake, everyone would certainly have died; and as it was the herds and the pride had taken a hard hit, losing nearly three-fourths their overall numbers. Other carnivores, especially the hyenas, would not be far from encroaching on their territory and it would be Mufasa’s responsibility to drive them back.

No, he didn’t hate his brother for saving the Pride Lands.

He hated that he forgot his family in the aftermath.

 

 _He is the master of his own destiny_.

Time passed. As with all things, they were forgotten.

The brothers, already aloof from the difference in their ages and preferences by their parents, had become distant. They may have very well been living on opposite ends of the planet with how often they spoke with each other despite their physical proximity. Any attempts on the lionesses’ part to draw the siblings closer together failed miserably.

He was not blind to their scheming and plotting. Nor did he begrudge them that; he knew that a united pride was stronger than one divided. But for all that he and his brother had in common, they had twice, perhaps even thrice as many differences that couldn’t be overcome.

Mufasa hadn’t yet earned his forgiveness, either.

It wasn’t for his brother’s sake that he now stood his ground in the Elephant Graveyard but for his home and heritage and his own life against the blasted hyenas that inhabited the barren land. Their dusky gray pelts blended seamlessly with the dead wastes and the bitter steam routinely belched by half-hidden geysers, allowing the scavengers to sneak up on him and take a swipe at his flanks or nip at his ribs, hoping to wear him down and pounce once his guard dropped.

Well, two could play at the game of deception.

One of the bolder canids jumped at his leg and clamped onto the muscle, teeth piercing warm flesh. He twisted around and grasped its ruff in his teeth, holding it in the same fashion that a lioness would her cub, and tossed the hyena away with considerably less care than any mother would show. It bowled through the mist and its companions, creating a brief gap in their line.

Immediately he ran for it, affecting a limp into his stride with less effort than he would have liked. The first two to seize their chance were knocked out of the air and into boiling water, their yelps of pain echoing off the bleached bones of giants. A third was roared at, curved fangs less than a paw’s length from its face; it reacted accordingly and scampered away with its tail between its legs. Numerous others followed behind, cowed by the show of strength.

Smug with his success he watched them retreat – and that was his undoing.

Not all the hyenas had chosen to run. Only the boldest and most idiotic had chosen to remain behind and defend their territory from the intruding apex predator, and it was one of those individuals that had made their move. Whether it was courageous or the epitome of stupidity that had driven the creature to fling itself at the lion would never be known, but its effectiveness could not be denied.

Claws sharpened by weathered elephant bone and shafts of kimberlite came down at him and sought to rip into the larger predator, to tear skin from flesh and render the vulnerable eyes and nose useless and bloody. But the creature had underestimated its strength, or the lion had shifted from its place; whatever the case, it mostly missed.

Mostly.

More blood was spilled before the sun had set on that gory day. Those who hadn’t retreated with their brethren never had the chance again and were left bleeding out when he finally left, bellies shorn open or skulls dribbling precious matter into the dust. His eye was already swollen shut and inflamed with pain; once he returned to Pride Rock the entire left half of his face numbed from any feeling.

He barely registered his brother’s alarm once he stumbled into the den, didn’t hear a word as he collapsed onto his side, legs giving out underneath him. He did manage to grin at Mufasa, wry and warped though it was, and rumbled, “The prodigal son returns,” before giving in to the darkness.

Nothing was the same when he awoke. He had stepped into another world, had been transported while unconscious.

Mufasa would not look at him directly. None of the lionesses would meet his eye. The other animals shied away or outright ran away from him. Rafiki would bop him on the head with his staff – though that was nothing new, unfortunately – and prattle on about ancestor stars and paths and whatnot. Which was not unusual, either; the gleam in the baboon’s eye _was_ , as was the measure of scrutiny that came with it, so similar to his father’s that it left him feeling as though he were a cub again.

He was a fully mature lion, however, so he took it all in stride even as he grit his teeth in frustration. Nothing had changed. He was still himself, only recovering from a superficial injury. The baboon had deemed the injury to his eye minimal, stated that most of the scarring would fade with time and his sight would recover with rest.

Could no one else see that? Had that singular injury set him so far apart from the others that he may well have been alien entirely? After the betrayal from his father and brother? The risks he had taken to protect the Pride Lands and all of its inhabitants?

Apparently so.

When that became his moniker – _Scar_ ; as though he didn’t have a name given to him by his mother; as though the wound had become all that he was – he had come to his conclusion.

If he could not receive the respect that was his by right, then he would have to take it by force. He had been denied long enough and if his efforts to show his worth would be gracelessly spurned, then he had no choice but to take what was his by heritage, brother be damned.

 _He_ was the prodigal son.

 _He_ was the successor to their father.

 _He_ was the hope of the pride.

 _He_ was the catalyst of their fall.

 _He_ was the master of his own destiny.

He was Scar.


End file.
